Medicine
by xpriordeen
Summary: Katniss and Peeta struggle to find themselves and to find each other when they return to District 12. Inspired by Daughter's song Medicine. I recommend you listen to it while you read. Warning: very dark.
1. Chapter 1

It was too soon for him to be back in Twelve. But, Dr. Aurelius was a busy man with paying customers by the end of the war, and Peeta Mellark was no longer a priority to anyone, so he was shipped home. It wasn't a home, not really. To him, nothing was. It was a house, but it suited him well, he thought. Empty, dark, abandoned. Just like him. It was, however, missing broken. Soon, he fixed that. The first time he caught sight of her through his window, the venom filled his mind so fast he hardly knew what hit him. He went mutt, destroying everything breakable in his kitchen, leaving a glass coating on the floor. He walked right over it, then trailed bloody footprints into his living room. He didn't care. He was raging. She was right there, living across from him, and he didn't know how to feel. He noticed her watching him from that very same window. He tore into his couch cushions, smashed the wooden legs of his chairs, punched a couple holes in the dry wall. He wasn't satisfied. He wanted, he _needed_, to destroy _everything_. He made his way over to the brick wall surrounding the fire place. He clawed at it until his fingers bled like his feet. He punched it until his hands were completely bruised. She was there. She was watching. She was doing this. The venom flared again, whispering falsities into his mind. He couldn't tell the difference. He was being tortured. She was there, watching, laughing, participating. She killed his family. She led him on, tricked him into loving her, never really loved him back. She was everything dark in the world. She was a Mockingjay, clad in black feathers, voice like a weapon. He hates her with every fiber of his being. He loves her so much it hurts. He slams his head into the bricks and collapses.

* * *

When he regains consciousness, Peeta knows he's in way over his head. He knows he's fucked up. He doesn't know how to fix it, how to fix himself. He has no help. His skull throbs and he feels dried blood on his forehead. Purple and green and yellow and red hands. Red feet, decorated with crystals. He moves step by step, slowly, the only way he knows how. Sit up. Breathe. Remove glass from feet. Breathe. He desperately wants to shower, to wash away the blood, to clean his house of what he's done, what he is. All he can do is pull himself up on the couch and fall asleep.

* * *

Upon waking, nothing has changed. His house is still a wreck. He is still alone. He is still Peeta, angry and hostile and dangerous and cynical. This time, he stands and makes it to his bedroom, where he showers. The blood runs down the drain, but he knows he will never wash his hands of it completely. Dressed in new clothes, he bandages his hands and feet sloppily. He doesn't really care, but he puts himself back together out of guilt. Guilt that he's alive while so many others are dead. So, he forces himself to live.


	2. Chapter 2

It was too late for her to be back in Twelve. But, her body couldn't stay in the Capitol with her mind, so she was shipped home in pieces. It wasn't a home, not really. To her, nothing was. Her sister is gone. He mother is gone. Her father is gone. Gale is gone. Finnick is gone. Peeta is gone. It's just her. Her and the cat. She wants to be gone. She tries to leave. She tries to take her own life. She fails repeatedly. She owes it to these loved ones to survive. Surviving isn't living. She only eats occasionally, when Greasy Sae literally forces the food into her mouth, and she doesn't leave her bed or speak for weeks. When she finally makes it downstairs by some miracle of nature, she looks out the window and sees Peeta in his house across the street. But, it isn't really Peeta. She feels something. She doesn't want to. She turns around and heads back upstairs without a second thought. The warmth of her comforter greets her like an old friend and she willingly wraps herself in its embrace. It holds her when she needs to be held, which is why she does not move. She is not strong anymore. She is burned out. She needs to be held together. She hates herself for it. She hates herself for being so weak, for not being able to sleep, to eat, to hunt. She's a waste of good oxygen. She's a waste. She doesn't deserve to live. She thinks she could die if she just refuses to eat for a little longer. She can see every one of her ribs. She feels pride for the first time in a long time. But then, Sae is back in her room, forcing her to eat. She eats. She is so weak. She thinks of the bottle pills she's been refusing to take. It calls to her from her nightstand. She accepts the call, taking them all at once.


	3. Chapter 3

He walks downstairs, ignoring the pain in his feet all together. There's so much blood on the floor. His eyes flit back and forth, analyzing, scanning, surveying. For a second, his mind is black. He grabs at his head, screaming. Images flash. He can't make them out at first. Nothing but shiny colors and bolts of light. Then, blood. The blood on the floor in front of him. His blood. His blood on the concrete floor of the cell. On the hands of the white-coated men. On the hands of Katniss Everdeen. Another scream rips from his throat and he desperately grabs for the railing attached to his stair case. He fights. He tries to contain the venom in his veins with every breath he takes. He tries to push it back down. It explodes with sparks in his brain and brings him to his knees. He fights harder, but he's drowning in the venom. He tears the railing from the wall, but he's so tired of destroying. His whole body trembles as he collapses into a pathetic heap on the hardwood flood.

* * *

When he opens his eyes, the blood is still there, staring him in the face, but he grits his teeth and makes to clean it. The act of standing alone makes him see stars, and his head hurts like it always does after a flashback, like it does most every day, but he revels in the pain. He deserves it. He is weak. This is his punishment. He cannot fight off this monster, and he deserves to feels the effects of his failure. The monster is made of him, it is nothing but him, but he is more than the monster. Still, he blames himself for this Other Peeta, which so frequently controls the Real Peeta. Whoever that is. He doesn't know anymore. He remembers a day in Thirteen when Delly told him that she admired his sense of self, his dedication to his personal values. He cried, unable to remember any of these values which he supposedly held so dear. He sweeps glass alone. He wishes there was someone to hold the dustpan. He is glad he has to do this alone. He mops the floor alone. He wishes he had help. He is glad no one shows up. He cleans his living room, fixing everything except the hole in the wall and the tears in the sofa. He wants to light a fire. There is no firewood. By this point, he is so exhausted, all he can do is retire to the armchair next to the fire place. He collapses into it and reaches for the quilt draped over the back, but he's asleep before he can pull it over his body.


	4. Chapter 4

Unfortunately, she wakes up in bed. She wishes there were more pills in the bottle. She wishes they were stronger. She feels sick to her stomach, which upsets her, because it means that she is definitely not dead. The sick feeling pleases her, because at least she's being punished in some way. She's being punished for failing again. She's sick of failing. She's just plain sick. She rolls over just in time to vomit on the hardwood floor, choking up nothing but stomach bile. Her mouth tastes like acid. She doesn't wash it out. Her door slams, and she jumps violently, hand flying to her back, which is void of arrows. She sighs, leaning back into the pillows, not caring who it is. She hopes it's Peeta. She prays to God it isn't. It's Haymitch Abernathy. He sees her. He sees the vomit. He sees the empty pill bottle on her bed.

"Shit, sweetheart."

She doesn't speak. She hasn't spoken in weeks. He doesn't say anything else, but he shakes his head as he sits in the lone chair across from her bed and pulls a flask from his breast pocket. Greasy Sae comes and cleans away the vomit and the pill bottle. She smooths Katniss' hair and holds a cold cloth to her head before leaving. Katniss doesn't deserve the affectionate gesture. She doesn't even deserve the company of Haymitch. She speaks.

"Leave."

"Why? You expecting more company? The boy, maybe?"

"LEAVE!"

The scream rips out of her throat. She didn't think she had it in her anymore, but Haymitch always did know how to make her mad.

"Good. You don't deserve him anyway."

"He's gone."

Haymitch pauses.

"Almost."

He leaves. She thinks.


	5. Chapter 5

Peeta cannot remember how to paint. The canvas in front of him is nothing but a mess of black strokes. He can't mix colors properly. He can't make a straight line. He throws the paintbrush at the wall in frustration. Painter. A word that used to define him. Not anymore. Painters create. He can never create, not ever again, not now that his head is filled with darkness instead of color. So, he does what he does best. He destroys. He coats every painting in the room in a thick layer of black, working with extra diligence on the ones of Katniss. When the doorbell rings, he becomes so paranoid that he drops the bucket of black paint and it splatters all over his clothes. For a second, something deep inside of him feels hopeful that when he opens the door, he'll see Katniss standing there. Something more prominent replaces that hope with pure fear. Haymitch Abernathy greets him when he pulls open the door.

"You don't look yourself, boy."

"I don't feel it."

"You're not the only one."

Peeta does not reply.

"I was just at her house."

He still remains silent.

"She tried to kill herself."

Peeta's eyes finally meet Haymitch's.

"Again."

Peeta speaks.

"Again?"

Haymitch nods.

Peeta wants to help. He wants to storm over to Katniss' house and rip into her with his words so she never tries something so stupid and destructive ever again. He knows that's what Haymitch wants him to do. He knows that's what Real Peeta would do. But, he's lost his words. And he even admires her. She, at least, has the courage to off herself because she knows that's what's best for everyone. They're both better off alone. They're both better off dead.

"Oh," is all he says.

Haymitch looks at him like he's just turned blue and sprouted wings.

"What's wrong with you, boy? She needs you."

"I can't help her anymore."

With one last look at Peeta, Haymitch raises the bottle he'd been clutching to his lips and turns around to leave, a sign that even the Mentor is too far gone to help anyone now. He was looking to Peeta, hoping that he would be a beacon of light to lead him out of the darkness. Peeta's light has gone out. They're all stretched to their limits. Peeta thinks that he'll never see Haymitch again. He'll die here in this house alone. He probably deserves too.


	6. Chapter 6

"He's gone."

"Almost."

The three words conversation echos in her head for hours until something louder drowns it out.

_Your fault your fault your fault._

It gets louder. She thinks she forms her first coherent thought since she's been home. She did this to Peeta. Because of her, he was ready to die in the first Games to save her life. Because of her, he volunteered in the second round when he could have stayed safely in District 12. Because of her, he was taken by the Capitol, tortured into oblivion, hijacked beyond repair. Because of her, he's dealing with all of this alone now. She deserves to be alone, without comfort, without company. He does not. If anyone in this world deserves happiness, she thinks, it is Peeta Mellark. And if there's anyone less deserving of him, of the memory of him, it is her. That's all he is to her, to himself, to anyone. A memory. She feels something. She hasn't felt anything in weeks, maybe months. She feels guilt. She wonders who's worse off right now. Him? Or her? She chides herself for turning their pain into a competition. They've had enough competitions to last them a lifetime. The Games are over. The war is over. At least, they are for her. Not for Peeta. Peeta is still fighting. This much she knows. The guilt multiplies. She has to do something before it crushes her.


	7. Chapter 7

He returns to the desolate art studio and all the black stares him in the face. It seeps from the canvases, through his eyes, until it fills his brain. He shakes. He knows its time for the daily flashback, for the constant reminder that he's too weak to fight anymore. He knows it would probably be easier if she was here to hold him. He knows it would probably be one thousand times worse.

* * *

The headache is not aided by the vibrant colors coating everything in the room. He does not remember the details of the flashback. Everything in the studio is coated with thick layers of paint, including himself. The canvases are broken. The brushes are broken. The pallets are broken. There is no paint left. Good, he thinks. He doesn't want to paint ever again. He just wants to sleep. Forever. He knows he should be hungry. He isn't. He hasn't been hungry for weeks, months. He wants to bake anyway. He probably can't remember how to scrape together the simplest loaf of bread. Real Peeta laughs at Other Peeta inside his head. Real Peeta is an expert baker. Other Peeta accepts the challenge. In his kitchen, his hands move independently from his mind to pull out the necessary ingredients, mix them together, shape them into rolls, put them in the oven. This isn't like painting. He needs no creativity or inspiration for this. This is muscle memory. When he pulls the rolls from the oven, the scent hits his nose and he realizes that he's made cheese buns. He remembers that she's always love his cheese buns. He thinks of her, and has no flashback. He thinks of her, and comes close to tears. He thinks of her, and collapses in his bed without showering away the paint that covers every inch of him.


	8. Chapter 8

She's not thinking, she's not thinking, she's not thinking. Her legs move independently from her mind to dress in clean clothes, pull on her boots, leave her house, enter his. She has to see him, if nothing else, to determine how he is doing, to confirm that he is alive, so that maybe she can get a little peace of mind. She is selfish. She knows it. She knows what happened the last time he saw her. She knows this could probably kill him, kill the both of them. She doesn't care much about her life, and she suspects that he feels similarly about his. It doesn't matter. He isn't in the kitchen or the living room, and quite frankly, she doesn't have the energy to climb the stairs. Pathetic. She sits herself at his kitchen table, waiting for him to come, selfishly picking at a cheese bun. The buns are warm. He baked recently. Maybe he isn't as bad as she thought he was. She hears the shower start. Maybe he isn't as bad as she thought. She almost doesn't hear him come down the stairs, but he's never had her light hunter's footsteps, so she knows he's coming before she sees him. Maybe he isn't as bad as she thought. She steels herself. She hears him stop in his tracks, then, without a word, he takes the seat across from her. He stares while she picks at the bun. She isn't hungry, so she puts it down and stares back. The first thing she notices is his wet hair. Its way longer than she ever remembered it being, but its still shiny and blonde and curly. She has hope. Then, she notices his eyes. Still blue, but sunken. The bags look like huge purple bruises. His cheeks look hollow and his lips are raw and chapped. His nails are bitten down to nothing. She wonders how long they spend just looking each other up and down before he speaks.

"You're in my house. Real or not real?"

She doesn't know what to say. She's shocked by the sound of his voice. It isn't his voice. Its deeper and softer and darker. She wonders what she sounds like when she isn't yelling one word responses at Haymitch. She decides to find out.

"Real."

She doesn't sound like Katniss. Her voice weaker and ragged and broken. He stares back for a minute, nods, and retreats back up the stairs. She has to get out of here. She has to go far away. He's not as bad as she thought he was. He's worse.


	9. Chapter 9

When he wakes, he doesn't know who he is. _My name is Peeta Mellark, _he reminds himself. _I'm_… he can't remember if he's seventeen or eighteen. He can't remember his birthday. Defeated, he showers the paint away, but when he looks into the mirror, he still can't see himself. He thinks he'll make some more bread, but when he goes downstairs, Katniss fucking Everdeen is sitting in his kitchen. Who does she think she is? She broke into his house. He hates her for this. He's so glad she's here. Maybe he keeps the door unlocked for a reason. He decides that he needs to get a better look at her, not caring if it will bring on a flashback or not. She had to have known that she's risking her life coming over here, unannounced and alone. He takes the seat across from her and stares while she picks at one of the cheese buns. Her hair is matted and unbrushed in a way that sort of resembles Buttercup's fur, but its still soft and brown and almost braided. Her eyes are grayer than he remembers. Darker. Clouded with memories she wishes she didn't have. She has dark bags, but they've got nothing on his, which look more like bruises on his cheek bones. She's small. So small. Too small. Starved. Its like she isn't even here. Maybe she isn't.

"You're in my house. Real or not real?"'

She hesitates for a long time before she speaks. He tries not to move while he waits for an answer, hyper aware of the fact that he'll probably have a flashback any second. He doesn't know why he cares. He's accepted the pain and the confusion. He wonders if it has anything to do with the fact that he cared for her in a different life.

"Real."

She's here, but he has no clue why, and he doesn't want to ask. He doesn't care. He's far past caring. He can't have a conversation with her right now. He's too tired, even though he's been sleeping for the better part of his life now a days. So, he goes back upstairs, leaving her behind, but he doesn't go to his room. He can feel the flashback coming, and this time, he has a plan. He digs around in the storage closet for a padlock before heading to the art studio. He locks himself in and hides the key in an empty paint can, which he places in a corner with a few other empty cans and splints of wood. Then, he braces himself and prepares to become a slave to the venom yet again.


	10. Chapter 10

She runs from her problems, like she always does. This time, as she crashes through the forest, it feels different. She doesn't bother to be quiet, to watch where she steps, to avoid leaving a trail. She isn't hunting anything and nothing is hunting her. She is, however, being chased. Chased by the ghosts of a boy and a girl who used to frequent the forest as a refuge. They don't come here anymore. They'll never come here again. She can't escape the ghosts. She can escape Peeta. She can escape seeing his sunken eyes and bitten lips and facial expression that is all surrender and no fight. She can escape hearing his voice, all anger and sadness, no hope. She makes it to the shack in the middle of the woods on pure adrenaline. By the time she's through the door, its dark outside. She deposits herself on the floor in front of the empty fireplace and shakes from the cold. She's so tired. Her body hurts everywhere. Her muscles burn. Her eyes start to droop, but she forces them open, only to find them closing again. She doesn't want to sleep. She can't sleep. She can't handle the nightmares tonight. Maybe, she reasons, if she's tired enough she'll simply fall unconscious and have no nightmares at all. Her eyes fall shut again, and this time she doesn't know how to open them. She prays that she's tired enough. She prays that she won't wake up.

* * *

Tonight, its different. Tonight, its no one's fault but her own. Tonight, its all too accurate. Tonight, she sees herself, decked out in all black, sporting vicious looking claws and deadly fangs and fresh wounds and a cunning grin. She's the one who puts the spear in Rue's chest. She's the one who poisons Mags. She's the one who rips Finnick's head of in the depths of the Capitol sewers. She's the one who lights her sister on fire. She's the one who sticks her hands in Peeta's head and scrambles everything around, changes him, turns him into something he's not. His worst nightmare. She made it reality. She made this all reality.

* * *

Upon waking, she realizes that she liked it better when she felt nothing at all. She liked it better when she was sitting in her bed, mind void of thoughts, save that of her own death. She liked it better when she was numb and empty. Now, she's all guilt. She gasps for air as she tries to forget the nightmare. Warm tears spill from her eyes and freeze on her cheeks. She cries for hours, but makes no sound. She hopes she'll drown in her tears. She hopes she'll have the willpower or luck to remain here until she dies. She hopes she'll never have to see Peeta again. She can't tell it she's selfish or self-sacrificing. Probably the former.


	11. Chapter 11

They're so much worse when he doesn't try to fight them. Lately, he hasn't had much fight in him. He doesn't see the point. He used to fight them off for her, but she isn't here with him anymore. He just lets the venom hit him full force, rides it out, wakes up, and waits for it to happen again. This is his life now. When he wakes this time, its to the sound of Haymitch banging on his door and calling his name.

"Peeta Mellark I know you're in there! Mellark you piece of shit! Come out here right now!"

He surveys his surroundings. Nothing seems touched, and he's curled in a tight ball in the corner of the room. This flashback was different. He didn't damage anything. He stands and the room tips on its axis. He falls. He stands again. This time, he's able to retrieve the key from its hiding place and unlock the door for the Mentor, only to find himself pinned to a wall. Haymitch holds him by the front of his shirt with one hand and grips his shoulder with the other while slowly looking him up and down. Peeta blinks slowly, uncaring, trying not to black out from the headache. Haymitch lets him go and Peeta has to press his palms to the wall to keep upright.

"You seen Katniss?"

"She was here."

"Here?"

"Yes."

"When?"

Peeta shrugs.

"Why?"

He shrugs again.

"What happened?"

"I came downstairs and she was just sitting at my kitchen table. We sat for a while but we didn't talk. When I went upstairs she was still here. I haven't seen her since."

"You had an episode?"

"Yeah," Peeta says in a matter-of-fact voice.

"You locked yourself in here so you wouldn't hurt her?"

He didn't think about why he locked himself in. He didn't think he did it for her. He doesn't want to admit that he's still trying to protect her. It's stupid.

"I was just sick of destroying my shit."

Peeta never used to curse.

"She's been gone for three days."

He finds that he doesn't need the wall for support anymore.

"Three days? Has anyone looked for her? Did she tell anyone where she was going?"

"We looked everywhere. Can't find her."

"Even the forest?"

"Thom and some others were there yesterday. You have no idea where she would have gone?"

"No idea," Peeta confirms.

Silence follows.

"I'm going to look," Peeta claims.

"No way."

He's gone to his room and pulled on a long sleeve t-shirt and an old pair of boots before Haymitch can say anything else. He's out the door before Haymitch is down the stairs. He hears the Mentor calling his name, but he pays no heed as he runs into the forest with no idea how or why. He knows nothing except for the fact that he has to find her. He just saw her. She was just alive. It would be better for him if she were dead. It would be easier if she were dead. It would ruin him if she were dead. So, he runs aimlessly, endlessly, through the trees. He runs until he can't run anymore. Then, he walks. He doesn't stop moving. He won't stop moving until he finds her. His lungs feel tight and when a sharp pain slices through his head, he knows the adrenaline is running low. He finally stops, doubling over, aching everywhere. He turns his head to the side, trying to catch his breath. That's when he sees it. Form his folded position, hands braced on his knees, neck craned to the side, panting uncontrollably, he spots the cabin. It screams her name. His breath suddenly catches in his throat. He can run again. He runs into the house. She's there, curled in a ball on the ground in front of an unlit fire. He's by her side before he knows what he's doing.

"Katniss. Katniss!"

He calls her name as he shakes her. Her body feels hot. He feels a pulse. She's alive. He breaths a little easier. He shakes harder, screams louder. Her eyes flutter and, without thinking, he collects her limp form into his arms and holds her. She shivers against him. He feels her arms go around him. She shivers and he tries to rub warmth into her, even though he can feel the heat radiating from her.

"Are you cold?"

She nods.

He takes off his shirt and puts it on her. She doesn't protest.

"We're going home. Do you know how to get us home?"

"Why are you here, Peeta?"

"I don't know."

"I'm not going home with you."

"Please."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

She stares at him for a long time. He stares at the wall behind her. He really doesn't know. He just knows that he needs her back in her house. He needs to know that she's safe. He needs to know that she's there, across the street, being looked after by Haymitch and Greasy Sae. That's all.

"Take me home," she says.

She's weak, too weak to walk. She leans heavily on him for the majority of the time. She only speaks to give him directions. He doesn't speak at all. When her legs have given out too many times, he carries her the rest of the way in his arms. He tries not to look at her. He tries not think about the way she feels pressed against him. They take the long way home to avoid having to walk directly through the town. She's barely conscious when he places her down on her sofa, but he's never felt more alive. He did it. He didn't have a flashback. He doesn't feel one coming. He feels something different. Not happiness, that's too far fetched. Not hope, that would be wishful thinking. Maybe pride. He's proud. Maybe he's improving. He turns to leave when she grabs for his hand.


	12. Chapter 12

She feels feverish. She knows she's back in her house. She knows Peeta brought her here. She doesn't know how. She doesn't know why. She feels him leaving and gathers all her strength to reach for his hand. By some miracle of nature, she grabs it and begs him to stay. She doesn't know why she does it. Then, before she can fall asleep, he's shaking her violently again. For a second, she's scared, but then she hears his question.

"When was the last time you had something to drink?"

"Before," is all she can choke out.

He silently makes her drink a few glasses of water before he lets her rest.

She thinks she feels him try to leave again. He can't leave.

"Stay with me?"

She hears him whisper a word back, but she doesn't quite catch it.

* * *

When she wakes, Haymitch is passed out on the chair across from her and Peeta is sleeping on the floor next to her couch, their hands still intertwined. She feels her face flush and slips her hand away. She feels nauseous and bolts from the couch to the bathroom, stepping on Peeta in the process. When she emerges, he's sitting on her couch with more water. He hands it to her and she drinks it. They sit in silence, staring at Haymitch, until Greasy Sae opens the door.

"Thank God you're okay!"

Sae is holding her in her frail arms and for a second, she's nostalgic for her mother.

"You're burning with fever, dear."

Sae hurries off to busy herself in the kitchen and Peeta stands to leave. She wants to ask him to stay again. She can't make herself do it this time. The guilt comes flooding back again, crashing into her chest like a tidal wave. He saved her. Again. He saved her after she abandoned him. She was too weak, too stubborn, to do anything for him, but somehow, he saved her again. He keeps rescuing her and she keeps fucking him over. She lets him leave, thinking that he's better off away from her.


	13. Chapter 13

He leaves, thinking that she's better off away from him. She's in good hands. She's home safe and Greasy Sae is there to nurse her back to health. She doesn't need him there. He doesn't need to be there. He doesn't know why he did what he did. He doesn't know why he went after her and brought her home and fell asleep holding her hand. He doesn't want this. He can't want this. He can't want her. He lets out a violent cough as soon as he's through his door. He thinks that maybe he caught her fever. He doesn't bother turing on any lights. He just goes to the kitchen, vomits in the trash can, gets a glass of water, and collapses onto the couch. He places the water on the coffee table next to a book and sets the trash can by his head. He turns on the light and tries to read, but it gives him a headache. He thinks that he likes the feverish sickness better than the tracker jacker venom sickness. He didn't have a flashback yesterday, or last night, or this morning. He vomits again and thinks that he's never felt better.

* * *

He dreams of her. He dreams of her in a way that he hasn't in a very long time. When he wakes, he's not sweating or screaming or delusional. He's calm. He doesn't remember the dream exactly, but he knows he dreamt of her, the real her, the one he used to love. He wonders fleetingly if that girl still exists. He dismisses the thought, deciding that she isn't the problem. The boy who used to love her is gone. It would be a betrayal of his childhood self, trying to love her the way he is now. He doesn't know what time it is. He doesn't even know what day it is. All he knows is that its dark and he must be breaking some kind of personal record for time gone without a flashback. His body shivers and sweats at the same time and his muscles react poorly to his attempt to leave the couch, but he reminds himself that the fever virus is nothing compared to the tracker jacker venom. Maybe his body is too weak to react to the venom. No, that isn't right. If anything, the illness would make him more prone to having an episode. He decides not to think about it, opting to sleep his flu away. In the natural darkness, he finds slumber with a discerning ease that he has never been used to.

* * *

The next few days, or what he guesses to be days, go by routinely. He sleeps less, falling back into his patterns of insomnia, but he does muster up enough strength to move around the lower level a little bit. He walks to the bathroom to relieve himself and clean the bucket that catches his vomit, which is mostly just stomach bile. He walks to the kitchen and forces himself to eat small portions of mild foods and drink water. He finishes his novel. He tries to control the venom. He succeeds. He tries not to think of Katniss, which is really one in the same task. He doesn't do as well. In his feverish slumbers, he often dreams of her. Most of the delusions are unpleasant, as he is accustomed to, but he handles them well upon waking, reassuring himself that she means him no harm. Some of the flu-induced dreams are more pleasant, like the first one. When the sun sets yet again and he forces his eyes closed, trying to allow his body to fend off the virus, he doses off more easily than he expected. In his dream, she's there with him, sitting on the floor, holding his hand like he did hers after bringing her home. When he wakes, he misses the feeling of her small, delicate, soft hand in his large, destructive, calloused one. Then, he realizes that he can't miss something he hasn't lost. He must be hallucinating. He still feels her hand in his. Slowly, he tilts his head to the side. He sees her. She is here. She is holding his hand. He can't throw himself from the couch fast enough. She wakes and scampers until her back hits his door. He moves away from her until he's crashed into the opposite wall. He sinks to the floor and she hugs her knees to her chest. He feels the venom boiling in his veins.

"Katniss," he growls. "You need to leave."

He forces his eyes shut, feeling sick from the flu and from the venom and from her proximity to him and from his inability to handle it. When he opens them, she hasn't moved. He grinds out a word that kind of sounds like "go." She does the opposite. Slowly, meticulously, she stands and starts to inch towards him. He recoils into himself, trying to dissolve into the bricks. She crouches in front of him and takes his hands again. He's trapped. He's trapped in between two worlds. He's being pulled towards the world of the Capitol and the venom and the hallucinations and the mutts, but he sees her in front of him, moving her lips to form words he can't hear. He wants to hear her words. He knows they are hard to come by. He focuses on trying to hear her. Eventually, he does. By this time, he's seeing stars and he can't tell if he's hot or cold, but he focuses on her lips. He only breaks his concentration to vomit on the floor next to him. When he looks back to her, he can hear her clearly.

"Peeta?" she says his name like she's pleading for her life.

"Peeta can you hear me? Can you hear me now?"

He nods his assent and she sighs deeply in front of him, dropping her head to her lap. She gets up and he breathes deeply while she mops up his vomit. He's grateful, but can't make himself tell her.

"Let's get you to your bed, okay?"

He shakes his head more violently than he should have. His nightmares are worse in his bedroom than they are in the living room.

"No. The couch. Please."

She doesn't protest. She helps him walk, similarly to how he helped her home from the forest, with one of his arms around her shoulders and one of her hands gripping his hip bone tightly. He falls hard onto the cushions, accidentally taking her with him. He doesn't need to ask. She stays, sandwiched between the back of the couch and his chest.


	14. Chapter 14

She doesn't want to think about it. She doesn't want to think about the fact that as soon Sae deemed her well enough to be left alone, she rushed over to Peeta's. She doesn't want to think about the fact that she could practically feel the heat from the fever radiating off him from the door. She doesn't want to think about the fact that she had Sae to take care of her and Haymitch for company while she recovered and Peeta, as per usual, had no one. She doesn't want to think about the fact that she held a cold towel to his head and fell asleep with her hand in his. She doesn't want to think about his flashback. She doesn't want to think about the fact that she spent the night with him on his couch. She just wants to feel the steady beating of his heart under her head. She just wants to stare at the sunlight as it streams in through the window, illuminating his blonde eyelashes, making them appear impossibly long. She just wants to stay with him and make sure he's okay, at least until his fever breaks, to make up for all she's put him through. She knows she can never make up for it. She has to try. The idea fills her. She dedicates herself to it. She has to help him. He needs her. She reluctantly admits to herself that she clearly needs him too. As soon as his eyes open, she's propped up on her elbows, badgering him with questions.

"How do you feel? Do you need anything? Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

She sees him smile for the first time in God knows how long.

"I feel better. I think the fever broke."

She exhales, blowing a loose piece of hair from her face.

"Thank God."

"Katniss? You… um… you were here last night, right?"

"Real. I was here. I just came over to check on you and to thank you for… what you did the other day… and you didn't look so well. So I stayed. And then you almost had a flashback. And I stayed again. I hope that's okay."

He just nods. The smile fades. The glimpse she caught of the old Peeta vanishes.

"I'm going to shower," he politely informs her.

He'll never forgive her. She needs him to forgive her. He doesn't want her. She needs him to want her.

"Oh. Okay. I'll go home then."

"No."

He presses his palms to his eyes, struggling with himself, she knows. Trying to find words. He never used to have a hard time finding words.

"Just… just wait for me."

They make eye contact. She knows he's implying more than what he's saying. Her stomach tightens and she presses her lips together, slowly nodding. He tries to smile again. His smile isn't what it used to be.


	15. Chapter 15

He prays that she'll wait for him. Really wait for him. He's just so confused. When he woke up with Katniss pressed into his chest, before he was fully aware, before he had too much time to think, he was happy. She had stayed with him. He had loved her again. But, when his eyes adjusted to the light and the clouds of sleep cleared from his mind, the happiness slipped away as quickly as it had come. He was confused and frustrated. Frustrated because he had stupidly allowed himself to revel in her presence, to soak her in, to hold her as if she was his, as if he wasn't stealing her away from a different Peeta who might have had a shot at deserving her. Frustrated because he had let his bliss slip away and reverted back to his usual train of thought. It was all so confusing. He was angry at himself because he forgot how to love her. He was even angered because he could never truly forget, even though he knew it would be for the best if he did. Before he lost his mind, he always used to know what to say. Now, he can't even begin to express any of his feelings to Katniss. All he can do is pray that she'll wait for him to figure it out. He wants to figure it out. He hopes that he won't be able to. When he comes back downstairs, his curls are damp and he no longer smells like vomit and he's wearing clean clothes, but Katniss is still sitting on his couch. He shivers, and she's immediately on her feet, starting a fire with wood that he certainly didn't collect himself. He just grabs a quilt and wraps it around his shoulders, taking a seat on the couch. When she's done with her work at his fireplace, she sits next to him. She sits close. Too close. He retreats back into his shell, chiding himself for what he said earlier. Wait for me? What was he thinking? She'd have to wait her whole life for the Peeta that cared for her to return. But if he didn't care for her anymore, what made him run through the woods to find her, to carry her home, to stay with her, to pull her into his arms and fall asleep, asking her to wait for him upon waking? He couldn't love her, not anymore. That would be impossible. But he can't think straight, so he doesn't think at all. They sit shoulder to shoulder, not thinking, not speaking, not moving, barely breathing. He's not supposed to be thinking, but nevertheless, something creeps into his brain anyway. It's simple, really. He just wants to make polite conversation. But this new Peeta didn't care about being polite to anyone, especially not Katniss Everdeen, so maybe he was genuinely interested in eliciting an answer from her.

"How are you?" He asked.

"Swell. How are you?"

Her voice was monotone. It didn't carry the same beautiful notes it used to when she spoke, her voice like a song. She sounded completely and utterly drained.

"Just grand," he replied.

Silence engulfed them. She broke it.

"We shouldn't lie to each other."

"Probably not. I think we're past the point of trying to spare each other's feelings or preserve mental health or anything."

She scoffed.

"How are you?" He asked again.

"I'd rather be dead. How are you?"

"I don't know. I don't remember shit. I'm blacked out half the time. I can't even tell you what goddamn month it is. I feel like I'm already dead."


	16. Chapter 16

Her heart broke for him. Peeta Mellark, her Peeta, her boy with the bread, her dandelion in the spring, clearly didn't have an ounce of hope left in his body. She couldn't take it. It completely disarmed and alarmed her. It kick started her brain again. It woke her up. Of course, even if he didn't know it, he was the only person with the ability to shake Katniss out of her depression. Because she knew that she couldn't die knowing that he might follow shortly behind. Maybe once she got him back, then she'd be able to go. Something at the pit of her stomach told her that she wouldn't want to leave him even if she knew he was fully recovered.

"Peeta," she sighed.

Her voice was soft, but at least there was a tone to it. She found a new purpose. She was going to dedicate herself to protecting this boy, to healing him. Something lights inside of her, and she knows she wants nothing more than to have her Peeta back. She wants him to look at her with bright blue eyes and she wants him to hold her in his arms and she wants him to brush his lips on hers and she wants him to want her. God, does she want to be able to kiss him again. She wants him to be able to kiss her back. The flame grows. She needs to get him back. She can't live without him.

"Katniss, I'm so confused. I don't… I don't know why, but I think you can help me. Help me. Please say you'll help me."

He's begging, tears brimming in his eyes, and she sets on fire.

"Of course I'll help you, Peeta. I'll always help you. Always. I won't leave you again."

His body visibly deflates in relief, but he doesn't touch her. She wants him to.

"I wish I wasn't always so tired."

"It's okay. Go to sleep. I'll wake you up tomorrow morning and you can start fresh."

More tension seeps from his body, and he takes her hand, squeezing gently. She squeezes back, but doesn't lighten her grip. But, before she knows it, he's slipping his hand out of hers, slipping away from her again. She starts to choke out his name, to beg him to stay with her, but she doesn't need to. He lies his head in her lap, closes his eyes, and within minutes, his breathing slows. She runs her hands through his long blonde curls the way she used to, but she doesn't let herself sleep. She can't risk having a nightmare and waking him. She doesn't want to disturb him. So she doesn't move and she doesn't sleep. She just weaves her fingers through his golden locks and gets lost staring at his long eyelashes and high cheekbones and strong jawline until the sun sets and she can no longer make out his perfect, broken features. When the sun rises, she wakes him.


	17. Chapter 17

He wakes up with his head in her lap as she gently shakes his shoulder. She's here. His whole body tenses and she stops her movements, her hand turning to stone on his shoulder. _Bitch_, his mind whispers. He hates himself for thinking it. He can't help it. After all this time alone with the venom, without her, he's been well conditioned to hate her with every fiber of his being. And for a second, right when he wakes up, he does. His hands twitch to ring her neck, but he clenches them to the point of pain and controls the animalistic urge. He opens his eyes and she's staring down at him. Grey on blue. There's something in the way that she looks at him, eyes filled with passion and concern and desperation and something else that he can't put his finger on, that makes him realize that he could never hate her. He wants her back in his life. He needs her in his life. She's here now. She's actually here. To him, it feels unreal. It can't be possible.

"You stayed with me, real or not real?"

"Real."

"You wanted to?"

"Mmh."

"Katniss.."

He says her name through gritted teeth, like it burns his tongue, but he unclenches his fists and relaxes his muscles despite himself.

"How do you feel?"

"Less feverish."

"You still look sick."

He lets the silence engulf them. That's just how he looks now. She chews her lip and he realizes that he should probably sit up. He can't make himself. He's inexplicably comfortable right where he is. He feels safe, which confuses him. He isn't safe when Katniss is touching him. She isn't safe for him. No, he corrects himself, understating that it's him who isn't safe for her. But he craves her touch, and he's a selfish man. He literally has to force himself from her lap. He sits and rubs the sleep from his eyes as she makes her way to his kitchen.

"Peeta, there's no food in here," she calls.

"I could, um, make us some bread? Cheese buns?"

Her eyes light up, cutting the tension that hangs between them.

He doesn't bother changing out of his sweat pants or putting on a shirt or brushing his teeth. He just gets to work. She keeps her distance, watching him from across the island in the middle of his kitchen. He doesn't like it. He knows this is the way it has to be. At least for now. He's at a loss for words to start a conversation with her, so he just stares back as he works.

They size each other up as if they've never met before. As if they hadn't been allies, friends, lovers. As if they hadn't held each other together all those nights on the train. As if they hadn't shared dozens of kisses. Those moments belong to a different Katniss and a different Peeta. They belong to naive children who loved their families and ate lunch with their friends and slept through classes. Those children thought the odds were in their favor. They never thought that their names would actually be picked out of that glass bowl. They never thought that they would fight for their lives and survive. They never thought that they would become killers. They never thought that they would become national symbols. They never thought that they would change the fate of their country. They never thought that they would be put through the wringer and come out the way they did.

They are not those children anymore. They know better now. The odds were never in their favor. She is no longer the simple hunter girl, struggling to provide for her family. He is no longer the baker's son, smiling and waving at everyone he passes. She is the mentally unstable girl who lost her sister, the only person in the world she was sure she loved. He is the tortured orphan boy who had the misfortune of having his fate tied to hers. His heart aches for his brothers, his father, and even his mother. His cheeks heat and his vision blurs and he finds himself having to squeeze his eyes shut to hold back tears. He lost his entire family. He grips the counter to keep upright. He hates the raw sadness of _real _memories. He almost prefers the manufactured ones.

"Peeta?"

Her small voice forces him to straighten his spine and open his eyes.

"It's not a flashback, is it?"

He shakes his head and she waits a long moment before asking,

"What is it then?"

"My family. They're all dead."

He doesn't phrase it like a question. He knows this is real.

He feels her hand on top of his and knows that is real as well. That is a good feeling, her skin on his, and it is real. He focuses on that instead of his pain. He forgot what it was like to have something else to focus on. But now she's with him and she's somehow unknowingly pulling him back out of his own dark mind and into the light of the kitchen. He feels the sunshine warming the back of his neck from the window above his kitchen sink and he feels her hand warming his from where it rests and he decides that for right now, he can keep going. He finds the strength to pull his hand out from under hers and she sits back in her stool as he finishes off the buns. He's feeling almost relaxed until he burns his hand putting the pastries into the oven.


	18. Chapter 18

She won't run from him anymore. She can't. She is tethered to him. Somehow, she knows they are attached, and she doesn't want to cut the tie anymore. She likes it. She likes _him_. All of him. Even if he doesn't. And it's these feelings that she can't make disappear that drive her to his side. Not pity or guilt or responsibility. She genuinely cares for Peeta Mellark. If nothing else, she knows she cares. She doesn't push herself to read any further into it.

This time, the flashback hits hard and fast. When he grabs the hot rack in the oven by mistake, she knows it isn't the physical pain that brings him to his knees, but rather, the memory of something similar. She hopes she can help him before it goes to far, like last time. She doesn't want to clean up his vomit again. She's on her knees at his side before she knows it. This time, he doesn't push her away. He does the opposite. He grabs her hands and looks right into her eyes. Blue on grey. She tries to speak as calmly as she possibly can, using his name a lot and reassuring him.

"Peeta, it's okay. You're gonna be okay. It isn't real, Peeta. It's not real. Peeta, I promise you it's not real. You're safe. You're safe."

She sees him fighting to hang onto her words, but they aren't enough.

She slowly extracts her hands from his and carefully winds her arms around his waist, cuddling up to his side. She rubs slow circles on his back and thinks she feels his breathing steady a little.

She's still trying to protect him. It isn't enough. She needs to protect him. So, like she did in the depths of the Capitol, she presses her lips to his and desperately kisses him.

He doesn't kiss her back. Not even close. But after a few minutes of having her lips locked firmly on his, she feels him pull her down completely onto his lap. She straddles him now, and he still doesn't move to return her kiss. She doesn't want to admit it, but she can't deny that she feels a little disappointed and slightly rejected. She knows it's something he has to do on his own time. She knows he may never trust her completely again. For now, he holds her firmly and rests his head in the crook of her neck, just above her collarbone.

"Katniss," he whispers.

This time, her name sounds beautiful when coming from his lips. He doesn't spit it like it's poison, like he's been doing.

Whenever he says her name, it makes her heart beat faster. It lights a fire in her. No matter how he says it.

"I just want to help you, Peeta. I just want to make all of this end. It isn't fair. And I know I can't fix it or anything…"

He cuts her off.

"You can. It's easier when you're here. You saved me."


	19. Chapter 19

She saved him. She wasn't the problem, she was the solution. He needs her. He _has_ her. She's here in his lap, holding him together because he can't do it himself. He realizes that she's given herself to him completely, but this time, it's him who can't give her anything back.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into her neck.

She pulls away and looks him dead in the eyes.

"Don't you dare be sorry for something you can't control."

He shakes his head.

"It's not that. It's… I'm… I can't… I'm not the same person I was. I want to be, but I don't remember _how_. I feel like… I mean… I know I used love you. But loving you feels like a distant memory. And I don't think it's something I can ever truly forget, but right now, it's just _so hard_ to remember. I just… I know who I used to be, but it's not who I am now. I know I used to paint beautifully and bake easily and smile like nothing could ever make me sad and I never stumbled on words when I spoke and I loved you with everything I was. And maybe back then I deserved you. But now, the way I am now, well, I could never deserve you like this. Because you shouldn't have to deal with this."

He removes her from his lap with ease so that she's sitting next to him. Their hips touch. He stands up. So does she.

"Come with me," she tells him.

Then, she marches out of his door.

He knows she's always been hot-headed. He also knows he's never been able to say no to her. So he follows. He knows he's playing with fire here, but he's already been burned.

He follows her across the street and into her house. When he enters, she's standing in the kitchen, pointing to a leather-bound book on the table.

"Do you recognize this?" She asks.

"It's your fathers plant book."

"Right. Well, I'm expanding it. I'm making a memory book. And you're helping."

"A memory book?"

"Yeah. A memory book. So we don't forget everyone we lost, and all the loses we were responsible for. I'll write, you'll draw."

He's definitely playing with fire now. This isn't going to help him remember anything. It's just going to earn him a one way ticket to the land of the hijacked. Before he can protest, she's talking again. He can't remember the last time he saw her talk with such passion. But then again, he can't remember much of anything.

"You said you wanted to remember who you are. I know who you are, and I'm going to remind you. So you're helping me with my project, and I'm helping you with yours. Whatever questions you have while you're drawing, you can ask me. And for the record, I don't 'have to' deal with you. I chose to."

It's such a Katniss thing to say, and the her-ness of it all almost makes him laugh out loud. But he composes his features and tells her,

"I don't draw anymore."

She scowls.

"You do. And you will. I used to watch you draw, and I remember thinking you never looked so at peace, so comfortable, so _you._"

She pauses, forgetting the angry facade she's adopted momentarily. She looks at him and huffs, pushing the cardboard box on the table towards him. He opens it and inhales deeply at the scent of fresh parchment and colored pencils.

"I don't…"

"YOU DO!"

He sighs. He still can't say no to her.

"Where do we start?"

She sets her jaw and answers with determination.

"My sister."

The look in her eyes baffles him. She looks strong, and he feels strong looking at her, but he sees and incredible amount of pain behind her grey irises. It's like she's fighting to keep her emotions from exploding through the cracks in her skin. He knows better. He knows they'll explode anyway. He knows they'll shatter her. He feels strange. He feels like he wants to be here for her when they do. He feels like he can help her, too. He feels like if he does, he might have a shot at deserving her again. So he takes a seat at the kitchen table and starts sketching Prim's face.


	20. Chapter 20

She sits next to him and tries to put pencil to paper. Tries to scratch out words on the parchment about her little sister. Tries to sum her up so she'll me memorialized in the book. The book of dead people. Despite the seemingly endless stacks, she'll probably run out of pages. Her sister is dead. Dead and never coming back. She risks a glance at Peeta, who keeps crumpling up pieces of parchment and tossing them on the floor around him in an aggravated manner. She can't cry in front of him anymore. She promised herself she wouldn't. She told herself that at this point, he needs her more than she needs him.

Maybe it was a bad idea to start with Prim. Who else can she write about? Finnick? Cinna? Rue? All dead. She killed them all. She can't break down. She can't break down. Write about Prim. Write about Prim. Prim. Prim. She's crying now, the silent, painful kind. The kind where the tears run down her cheeks like rain in a hurricane and she knows she's powerless to stop them. She tries to get up, get away from Peeta, but he reaches out and grabs her wrist before she can put enough distance between them. For a second, she thinks he's going to attack her, that he's having a flashback and he'll off her right here, but that's not the case.

"We didn't have to do this, Katniss."

"No… I wanted to," she chokes out.

"We're not ready. It can wait. We'll do it, but not right now, okay?"

"You're ready. You're fine. You're better than fine! This is my problem. I'm the one who can't face my demons. I'm… I… I…"

She sobbing with even more fervor an he cuts her off, rising to her level and taking her in his arms.

"I can't do it either, Katniss. But I'll be able to. We'll be able to. I know it."

Her body shakes in his warm embrace, but he holds fast. She's shocked by his words. He almost sounds like the old Peeta. The Real Peeta. Hopeful. Her dandelion in the spring. Maybe there's a chance she's starting to get him back.

"I'm afraid I'll forget her. I'm afraid I'll forget them all. We owe it to them to remember them. We killed them. We killed them!"

"I know."

She's screaming now, letting the tears run freely, too tired and achey to try to hold them back. He scoops her up in his strong, muscled arms and carries her all the way to her bed. When he sets her down, she refuses to unwind her arms from around his neck. He's all she has left. He stays with her as she cries herself to sleep.


End file.
